Martian Knightlife

by James P. Hogan

  "Not graying hair, more fifties-ish?"

  "No. I've just told you."

  "Hmph."

  "There isn't any pulmonary lenticular encolitis listed in the references," Farquist said. "It doesn't even make sense. And I've never heard of closed-cabin infection."

  Velte, who had been following with rising exasperation on a link from Asgard, interrupted. "This isn't going to get us anywhere. Toole, Turle, whatever his name is—get him over there and have him account for himself in person. It's the only way we'll make any sense out of this. The whole thing is turning into a farce."

  "I'll call Hashikar and—" Banks began.

  "No!" Velte snapped. "Why tip them off and give them a chance to think up something else? Just send a squad out there and grab him. Are you there, Major?"

  "I hear you," Cobert's voice answered.

  "How bad are things with your men at the moment? Are they up to it?"

  "Queasy, but soldiers have fought with worse. Best to do it now, before they deteriorate further."

  "Let's get on with it, then," Velte directed.

  At that moment another voice, sounding as if it were coming through on an internal speaker, announced, "Attention, attention! Possible hostile alert. Approaching radar contact thirty kilometers, one-ninety degrees low, not responding to ID INT. Fire team to stations."

  * * *

  Clad in a light orange flight suit, Lee Mullen sat up front in the folding jump seat behind the pilot and c-com op. Behind, in the main body of the Airchief pickup skimming in from the south, the ten armed heavies that he had recruited for the raid to seize Thane and bring him in sat in two impassive lines along the sides. It should be a cinch, all had agreed. A quick swoop; just a bunch of geekspeaks and schoolteachers on a caravan tour . . . They'd be on the ground, have him out, and be away before the first graybeard had finished talking.

  The pilot turned his head and indicated forward with a nod. "Coming into view now."

  "Squad ready," the c-com op said over the cabin intercom. "Target in sight. Helmets secure. Final kit and weapons check."

  Mullen craned forward to look. The terrain was as they had seen on the graphic reconstruction from the information given by the people at Stony Flats: a high plateau with a steep side facing a broad, flat valley with hills beyond. The scientists' camp was where the contact had said it would be: on a rocky shelf halfway up, reached by a zigzag road.

  "Three . . . no, four aircraft," the pilot commented. He sounded surprised. "Wasn't this supposed to be an overland trip?"

  "They must be having visitors," the c-com op said.

  "Too bad we'll have to spoil the party . . . So where are the trucks?"

  "Aren't they the two square shapes at the back?"

  "Those look more like portashacks to me." The pilot turned inquiringly to Mullen again. "Maybe we should circle first and check it out."

  "Fast in and out," Mullen reminded him. "It's not worth losing surprise over. Stick to the plan. We're going straight in."

  "You're the man who's telling it. Approach vector set. LZ select confirmed. Descent program activated. We're going on it."

  "Thirty seconds. Release latches. Be ready to go." A short pause, then, "Somebody must be sick. That's an ambulance down there."

  The plateau top flattened ahead of them, then rose above. The shelf grew and unfolded below. And then, suddenly, from the c-com op again, "Break off! Evade! Evade! We're taking fire! Bursts ahead, starboard!"

  Mullen clutched at the seatback in front of him and his head swam as the pilot flipped to manual and sent the Airchief into a stomach-wrenching, climbing turn. Balls of flaring orange swept by outside. Confusion broke out in the rear as unrestrained bodies that had been poised ready to move fell and collided to the accompaniment of shouted curses. A pattern of crimson blotches appeared in the mid-ground between the veering craft and the rocky shelf—detonated short as warning shots. Even so, several scattered cracks sounded of fragments striking the structure.

  "What kind of schoolteachers are those?" the pilot snarled over his shoulder. "I thought you said this was gonna be a picnic. The operation's off. We don't have anything to take on that kind of artillery."

  Mullen found that his mouth had gone dry. It had been a long time since he'd been in any kind of firing line. "That little creep! Somebody else bought him! We were set up! He'll fry when I get back! Nobody crosses me and walks away! Okay, let's go home."

  * * *

  Kieran and the others had followed what they could of the action from the little that Gottfried, still perched on the slopes above the shelf, had been able to capture through his lenses. They were as unable to make sense of it as anybody at the Troy site, as the commotion coming in over the monitoring taps showed. To cap it all, in the midst of frantic calls from Banks to Asgard asking for instructions, Farquist joined in, making it shrilly clear that he and his medics hadn't come here to get involved in a private war and demanding to know what was going on—as if anyone there could tell them.

  Kieran decided that he had created about as much mischief here as he was likely to. It was time to carry the good fight to other quarters. He was fascinated by Pierre's self-assembling nano-synthesizers, and was certain that therein lay the means to make Gilder finally crack. But to do it he needed to get to Gilder directly, and the way to do that was not here. But possibly the wedding group assembling in Lowell might offer opportunities. Accordingly, he called Solomon Leppo and told him to get out to Tharsis in any kind of flyer he could lay his hands on and take Kieran back right away.

  Leppo arrived with a partner called Casey, sooner than Kieran had dared hope, in a sleek flymobile "special" they had modified themselves. Kieran left with them for Lowell just as Cobert's snatch squad was taking off from Troy to come and get him. He told Hamil and Walter that he'd just have to leave them to deal with Banks and Cobert for the time being, and come up with something to account for his disappearance. But then again, a coherent explanation for the antics of an eccentric like Keziah Turle was hardly something that could reasonably be demanded. Like Jesus Christ, the twentieth century's General MacArthur, and the Schwarzenegger Terminator of the old movies, he assured them that he would be back.

  17

  It was good to be back. Lowell felt urban and cosmopolitan, strange as that sounded for what was itself just a microscopic part of humanity gathered under a collection of domes and dugouts surrounded by desert. But it was a big step up from being confined in vehicles, portable cabins, and surface suits.

  Since there was a chance that June's place might be watched, Kieran called to let her know he was in town and then checked in at the Oasis—which was, after all, where all the action was happening that he hoped to use to his advantage. After treating himself to some clean clothes from the lobby-level shops and consigning his grubby desert wear to the hotel laundry, he showered, shaved, and relaxed for half an hour with a touch of Vivaldi and a Bushmills Black Bush straight. Then, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, jaunty, and invigorated, he went down to the bar to reconnoiter the situation and consider his options from here. As luck would have it, Patti was working the shift. Her face lit up as she recognized him.

  "Hey, Kieran! Welcome back. June said you were away on business for a while. Did you get it all done?"

  "The away part, anyhow."

  "So, Olympus again?"

  "Sure. You've cut your hair. What happened to the ponytail?"

  Patti took a glass and began filling it. "Oh, it just got to be too much bother. It just doesn't hang right in the gravity."

  "So I take it Guinness has been behaving? He's still taking you and Grace for walks?"

  "Yes. He's terrific. Half our friends are fighting over him now. Does that mean you haven't seen them yet since you got back? How come?"

  "I haven't been back there. I'm checked in here right now."

  "Oh! That doesn't mean that you guys are fighting or something, does it?" Patti looked horrified.

  Kieran grinned and shoo
k his head. "Nothing like that. I just have reasons for being here rather than there for a while."

  "Well, I'm glad about that. You two seemed to be right together." Patti set the glass down with a coaster. "Although, something a bit odd happened. I don't know if it was important or not, but Grace said that when she and another of the girls were out with Guinness, two guys in a car pulled up and wanted to know who the owner was. They sounded kind of . . . mean. Grace didn't want to get into complications so she just said he was hers. Was that okay?"

  "Hmm . . . Yes, sure."

  "Back in a moment." Patti moved away to serve some other customers.

  Kieran sat back on the stool to rest against a partition and looked around. Maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to walk around here brazenly as himself, he decided.

  The bar was busier than what had been the norm. And there was an atmosphere of boisterous familiarity among the people present, as if most of them knew each other—unlike typical guests and travelers, who tended to confine themselves to ones, twos, and small groups. "Seems you've got a party going on here," Kieran commented when Patti came back.

  "People have been coming in from all over for some big wedding that's being held off-planet," she told him. "They'll be leaving late tomorrow—but they're loaded."

  "Who's getting married? Any idea?"

  "Hamilton Gilder's daughter, Marissa. Where have you been? You know who he is, right? His face is on the net often enough."

  "The big chief of Zorken Consolidated, isn't he? The construction and mining outfit."

  "Right. They have this place in orbit that's swinging close by Mars right now. That's where the wedding is going to be."

  "Who's she marrying?" Kieran asked, although he already knew.

  "Mervyn Quinn." Who was a superstar of role-taking movies. "But his group is getting together over in Zerolon, somewhere—you know, the old tradition about staying separate beforehand. I guess they'll be going up on a different ship."

  Kieran nodded, sipped his beer, and fell silent for a moment, as if digesting the new information. "What's she like close up—the delectable Marissa?" he asked. "She looks pretty good in the shots I've seen of her."

  "You know, Kieran, I haven't even seen her. She's too special to be seen down here in the bar. They've taken a whole floor upstairs, and she practically stays in one of the suites up there—you know, with their own security people watching the doors and elevators." Patti shook her head as she began replacing clean glasses in an overhead rack. "I don't think I'd like to have to live like that, whatever she's worth. I'd rather work down here and be able to talk to people like you."

  "And walk Guinness," Kieran reminded her.

  "Of course. Can you imagine Marissa Gilder being allowed out to do something like that?"

  * * *

  After he had finished his drink, Kieran sauntered around inconspicuously, taking in what there was to be seen, at the same time pondering on how to become invisible without losing touch of what was going on. There were groups of wedding guests everywhere, beginning the process of letting their hair down for the big occasion. Harried hotel staff bustled back and forth, while in private rooms teams of hired caterers, florists, suppliers, and buying agents organized the profusion of gifts and trappings that would be transported up to Asgard along with the guests. To relieve the air of business utility and work-a-day officiousness that normally reigned there, and create a festive mood that would bring alive reminiscences of Earth, a South Pacific theme had been decided on. Troupes of Hawaiian and Polynesian dancers and musicians had been imported for the event; the menus gave foretastes of dishes prepared from yams, tropical fruits, luau meats, brought to perfection with spicy ingredients from all over Oceania; there were more budding flowers from local hothouses and nurseries than probably existed in one place anywhere else on Mars.

  Kieran drifted in on one of the florists and started chatting with her. Her name was Marion. She explained that the flowers were genetically adapted for shipping in the budding stage at low temperatures, which would enable them to bloom full and fresh when warmed on arrival. She showed him a species of such delayed-flowering lilies that had been selected for inclusion in the garlands and bouquets on account of their enhanced fragrance, which they achieved by expelling their scent actively. That was interesting, Kieran commented. He hadn't known about that before. "They create atmosphere for you—literally," Marion said, running a finger over a bundle of the buds fondly. "They'll be the last things to be packed tomorrow."

  Kieran wandered around the hotel thoughtfully for the next half hour. Then he went back up to his room and retrieved from the Juggernaut's data files the figures that Pierre had supplied for the externally applied electrical field strength needed to activate nano-synthesizers incorporated in body cells. Armed with that information, he placed a call to an old friend and communications specialist to inquire if, and if so, how a digital code could be multiplexed into a regular phone signal in such a way as to pulse the receiving voice coil to generate that order of field gradient. The system advised him that the recipient was almost a light-hour away in the Belt, and the reply would be forwarded. A short while later, Kieran reappeared downstairs in the room to the rear of the lobby area, where Marion and several assistants in white work coats were still wrapping and boxing budding blooms, tying posies, and arranging assorted sprigs of greenery.

  "Any chance I could steal a few of those lilies?" Kieran inquired casually. "I'm due to meet a special date in a couple of days' time. Wouldn't fresh-flowering lilies go off just great in a place like this!"

  "Don't tell me you're a romantic at heart underneath it all," Marion said.

  "And what's wrong with that? Sure, it comes with the name. Look around, you've got hundreds of them."

  Marion shook her head with a smile and gave him a bunch. "Here. Don't say I never do anyone a favor."

  "You see, I know a fairy godmother when I see one." Kieran examined the flowers. "How long beforehand would I need to start warming them up?"

  "About eight hours gives the best results."

  "Uh-huh." He peeled back the furled outer petals of one of the buds and studied it. "How does the ejection mechanism work?" he asked curiously.

  "Why do you need to know that?"

  "I'm an engineer. Engineers can't look at anything without taking it apart and wanting to know how it works."

  "Tell me about it. I was married to one once." Marion opened the inner layers to uncover the structures of the pistil and stamen, and gave him a mini tutorial on the pollination process and how it related to scent manufacture.

  Kieran watched and listened intently. "My word!" he commented when she was done. "It makes you glad to be a vertebrate, doesn't it?"

  Marion ignored the remark. "Good luck with your date. If you don't make out, you won't be able to blame it on us for not trying to help."

  "Much appreciated, indeed." Kieran walked away, smiling.

  * * *

  Back in his room, the first thing he did was put the lily buds from Marion in the room's refrigerator. Then he called Pierre to say where he was and that he would need a further supply of nano-synthesizer solution the following morning, prepared with a base that would disperse rapidly in air. He also asked Pierre's recommendation for a substance carrying a distinctive odor that would behave similarly. Having settled on a type, he ordered some from a local medical supplies company, to be delivered to the Oasis immediately by courier, along with an assortment of medical syringes, and asked the hotel's room service to bring a half-dozen extra wastepaper bins to his room. He called Solomon Leppo, telling him to be at the hotel the next morning too, and then Mahom Alazahad to ask if he could organize a private fire team for possible use at short notice from among his nefarious contacts. With the irrationality and flaring tempers that seemed to be in evidence everywhere, and especially after the show of force at Troy, Kieran felt that having some protection ready on hand for Hamil and the others out at Tharsis wouldn't be a bad investme
nt.

  Finally, he called June again with a shopping list of further items that he needed: a white work coat of the kind worn by lab techs and in plant nurseries, and some kind of memento from the Martian desert. "You know, a piece of polished rock, or a mineral with a striking pattern—the kind of thing they make into ashtrays and souvenirs. And it needs a fancy box to put it in, suitable for a wedding gift, along with a blank card." From theatrical suppliers, Asiatic-style stores, costumers, or anywhere else she could think of, he wanted an Eastern outfit: loose, pajama-style trousers; Turkish dolman jacket or similar; tarboosh or other suitable headgear, along with appropriate shirt, slippers and accessories; to go with it, a stage makeup kit and a selection of wigs—dark through white, showing various stages of graying. Kieran concluded: "Put some of my own clothes at the apartment in one of my bags, leave it in a baggage locker at the spaceport, and send me the key code. And, lastly, I want you to book a reservation at the Oasis for me."

  "You're already there."

  "Well, not me, this other character. Come on, stop acting obtuse. Let's have him arriving tomorrow, let's say for two nights."

  "And who would this be for?" June asked.

  "I'm not sure yet," Kieran confessed.

  "I need a name to make the reservation."

  Kieran frowned and thought for a few seconds. Then his face broadened into the kind of smile that came with a sudden inspiration that he couldn't resist. "The Khal of Tadzhikstan," he announced with a verbal flourish. "What do you think? Like it?"

  June groaned. "Dare I ask what this is about?" she hazarded.

  "He's going to be our way of getting to Brother Hamilton, otherwise known as He-Who-Seeks-After-Higher-Powers," Kieran informed her. "And the person he can do it through is right here, at the Oasis. You know, Lovely, I'm almost beginning to believe in a Higher Helping Hand somewhere myself."

  * * *

  When the syringes and test solution arrived, Kieran settled down with a pen, note pad, and a sample batch of lilies from the refrigerator to experiment with. He tried various ways of introducing the liquid using the different syringes, noting down the details and then carefully unraveling the buds to inspect the results. After discarding the failures, he found four methods that avoided internal damage or spoiling the external appearance. Using a numbered label to identify each, he repeated each of the four procedures on a new, untouched bud, and then laid them out around the room to thaw overnight, each covered by an upturned wastepaper bin. Beyond that, there was little he could do until the packages that June was organizing began arriving. Kieran went downstairs to have dinner and learn what he could through discreet questioning about the wedding party's composition, security arrangements, schedule for the following day, and anything else that might be useful.